


It's Magic in Our Veins

by mochiandtea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF Anthea, BAMF John, BAMF Mary, Gen, Illogical made-up medical practices., John's a muggle, Magic, Magical Illness, Mycroft doesn't know some things still, Not literally, OC-Benny, OC-Lix, OCs from the Homeless Network, Potterlock, Wacky timeline, and crown her queen, anthea - Freeform, mary morstan - Freeform, my solution to pre-S3 jitters is to bring her in, post-Reichenbach AU, so expect wacky symptoms., sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 20:08:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mochiandtea/pseuds/mochiandtea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock/Harry  Potter crossover.</p><p>In an unordinary, realistic universe, John will grieve heavily for his best friend. Eventually he will pick himself up and move forward. He will meet and marry a woman called Mary Morstan, and lose her to illness. And then Sherlock will appear again, and John will react with fury, betrayal, and eventually acceptance. They will live together again, and take cases together, and when they are old and grey, retire together.</p><p>This is all moot point. We are not looking at an unordinary, realistic universe.</p><p>In an unordinary, unrealistic universe, Sherlock falls from the roof of St. Barts, and John plunges into grief. He picks himself up eventually and moves forward. A year later, he will disappear. Last seen wondering between Platforms 3 and 4 of Kings Cross Station.</p><p>Or: the AU where John meets a pair of homeless Muggleborn siblings post-Reichenbach, during the Deathly Hallows book when Muggleborns are prosecuted. John's a soldier and a doctor, what do you think will happen?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. My first crossover fic. This is an experiment; I've read some really good Potterlock stories, but they always focused on the main characters (from either Harry Potter or Sherlock). I love reading the back stories, learning about the characters who experienced these fictional settings from an ordinary level. It's why there will be quite a few OCs in this story, they give me different ways of exploring the Harry Potter world, something J.K. Rowling couldn't expand on in some areas because they just weren't related to the canon plot. I know some people absolutely loathe OCs, but if you've read this far, please at least give it a chance. No romance with between canon characters and OCs, I promise.
> 
> Fair bit of world building though. Major shift of the HP timelines, I've moved events into the 21st century. And as I haven't seen Sherlock or read HP for a fair while...artistic license, yes?
> 
> Sorry for the terrible grammar. I don't have a beta to cuff me over the head for it. Oh, the strings of 'and' in the story is at least 50% intentional. Comes from reading too much post-modern fiction.
> 
> Slow updates.

There are many ways John's life could have gone after Sherlock dove off the roof of St Barts.

In an unordinary, realistic universe, John will grieve heavily for his best friend. Will struggle with the sudden loneliness of having his best friend ripped away, the horror and shock of him committing suicide (no, there had to be something else!), the anger at everyone for maligning Sherlock and at Sherlock for being such an idiot (playing with Moriarty, did he see how it would eventually end? No. No.) Will fervently, hopelessly wish Sherlock would come back and pretend it was all a cruel joke. _One more miracle, Sherlock, for me._

But this is John Watson, he will not collapse, even though the world around him seems to. He will pick himself up and move forward, slowly and painfully. He will bear the grief as part of his normal life, find a regular job, eventually meet a woman called Mary Morstan and marry this amazing and kind woman who recognises and accepts Sherlock as the once-centrepiece of his life. They will be granted a couple of years of content marriage before terminal illness takes Mary away, leaving John a second seemingly insurmountable grief to bear.

And three years after the Fall, the whirling chaos that is Sherlock Holmes will appear once more in his life, _one more miracle_ granted, and John will react with fury, with betrayal, and eventually acceptance. Because others have come and gone in his life, and the two greatest figures in his life left, but he was fortunate enough to have one come back, and how can he let that chance go? There will be cases, and wild chases, and experiments and lectures and small explosions at 221B Baker St until at last old age catches up with them, and they retire to the country in Sussex. They will live out the rest of their lives content, John turning his blog into actual published stories (with more deductive reasons added, to Sherlock's slight satisfaction), and Sherlock keeping bees and conducting experiments.

This is one path to a happy ending.

Or, within this unordinary, realistic universe, John's life reaches a tragic end. It may be through a bullet, shot from a sniper's rifle before Sherlock has managed to adequately dismantle Moriarty's organisation. It may be from John's own hand, his gun a trusty aid, because he is just so tired of picking up the pieces of his life, and practical man that he is, John recognises his limits, and soundlessly cries, _enough_. Or maybe, it is not John's life that reaches a tragic end, but an occurrence that never happens. It may be the first scenario explored, minus Sherlock coming back, because though Sherlock is a genius, he is not an assassin. He is a man with a huge reason to fight; it does not save a man from a (un)lucky bullet, or a misstep, or any number of incidents in the criminal cesspit Moriarty's web is spun in.

A number of ways that John's life could have gone in this unordinary, realistic universe. This is all moot point though.

We are not looking at an unordinary, realistic universe.

In an unordinary, _unrealistic_ universe, Sherlock falls from the roof of St. Barts, and John plunges into grief. He picks himself up, because he is John Watson, ex-soldier, and he knows very well the motto of keep calm and carry on. He carries painfully on.

A year later, he will disappear. Last seen wondering between Platforms 3 and 4 of Kings Cross Station.

 

XXX

 

At 36, after over a decade spent in service of the army, John is shot through the shoulder.

He survives, and is honourably discharged with a damaged shoulder, inexplicably bum leg, diagnosed hand tremors associated with PTSD, and limited finances. He is assigned a therapist he just can't open up to, and expected to rebuild his life with the pieces of his former self; ex-soldier, and ex-surgeon/doctor, once part of his identity as army doctor. His hands are steady only when they polish his smuggled (illegal) gun, his extensive knowledge on trauma surgery and inventive variations of first aid (thank you Afghanistan) only useful in theory, as his trembling hands prevent him from practising. His tiny bedsit, runs to the grocery, walks around London, all of it takes on a dull tinge so palpable it's like grey creeping inexorably over his vision.

He needs a solution to fix this (fix him), a sensible one, something that is not a war zone because that is not an option anymore, and God knows he'll be sectioned for saying he needs it, like some drug addict needing his fix. His therapist tells him he needs to go out more, make connections with others, ground himself in this civilian life. But John Watson is independent, staunchly so, he will not take _pity_ from anyone, something he will certainly get from those who once knew him and remember what he once was. As for making new friends, well, it's more a mixture of shame at his reduced circumstances and moody disinterest that stops him.

So John Watson struggles on alone. Until he meets Sherlock.

Sherlock...is insane; that is probably the politest way to say it. Abrasive, blunt, rude, knife-sharp eyes with equally sharp cheekbones and a tongue to match. He tears John open and lays him bare in seconds, like a butterfly pinned under glass. He sees the psychosomatic limp, the shaky hand, the lack of job, throws it back in John's face ( _so what_ he indirectly dismisses) and offers a flat share.

Then does his own version of convincing a potential flatmate, by curing his psychosomatic limp. Via car chasing.

It's ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. This is real life, not a film; London, not a war zone. It's, it's–

–it's like breathing after being held underwater. Sun in the eyes, grey receding, outlines of objects and people blurred but _there_. This is the civilian world, Sherlock Holmes acknowledges, and here, there is still a battlefield, still purpose. This is my war, Sherlock proclaims, and invites him to join in.

Gun in his hand, a straight shot through two windows, two separate buildings. A dead cabbie. John has not only enlisted, he's gone and sent himself into a hot zone. His blood is pumping, adrenaline sharpening his senses and reflexes, hands perfectly steady.

_You miss the war_ , the suited man had said. This is undeniable proof.

And after, he slips away with Sherlock, giggling and shushing by turns ( _we can't laugh, this is a crime scene_ ). They go back to Baker St, order Chinese and eat enthusiastically, chattering to each other about the case and other topics besides. It is warm, it is companionable, there is a strange sort of cautious, almost disbelieving contentment pulling at the edges of Sherlock's awkward smiles, and John is happier than he remembers being in months.

He moves into 221B Baker St the very next day.

The case, _A Study in Pink_ , sets the tone and vague routine of their partnership. Plus more yelling, lecturing, nagging and dodging of various body parts (human and animal). John gets a job and a forgiving boss. Primarily though, John builds his new life in the civilian world around Sherlock and the Work. (Married. Most definitely.)

Which is probably why Sherlock's fall feels as if his entire world has shattered. Because Sherlock had been the first to recognise something worthy in the pieces of an ex-army doctor, and the first to basically slap John in the face and say _look at the world you live in now. It's not what you're used to, but there are still things to see. Things to do. Purpose, John._

John has lost the foundation of his world, and for the second time in his life, he is faced with finding a new one.

No one and nothing else will compare. It is not a statement of passion, this is a fact. Proven when his psychosomatic limp and hand tremor return. John Watson, ex-soldier, ex-surgeon, ex-assistant-and-colleague, ex-completely-hale-body-again.

This pathetic pitiable man, he thinks savagely with a shudder, and cuts all communication with those who knew him because of Sherlock. He won't have others _pity_ him. He moves into a cheap shoddy apartment, away from Baker St. Mrs Hudson only smiles sadly when he informs her, pats his arm and requests he come back eventually. He will need to give her something nice, when he feels more stable. That much understanding in a person should elevate them to sainthood.

He gets a new job, at a smaller, more run down clinic. Ironically seemed to suit his current state. A little grey, a little worn, a little less than he used to be. He carries on.

He carries on.

 

XXX

 

He carries on until one day, around a year After Sherlock (fell), he is yanked into a CCTV camera blind spot.

He twists the person's arm and almost slams him against the wall. Almost. He lets go before he completes the move, because he recognises this person.

His attacker is just a boy, maybe around sixteen, and one of the innumerable homeless contacts Sherlock had. Sherlock had never really described much about them to him, claimed only to call on them as needed during a case, but John knows he cared about them a little more than that. He always knew which soup kitchens would most likely still have food to feed a hungry mouth that day, or which homeless shelter would most likely have a free bed that night. Sherlock had an undeniable soft spot for his regular contacts.

 John's main concern is not why the boy pulled him aside. His main concern is the lacerations mangling the boys arms and hands, his neck, even his cheeks. Quite a few of them are still bleeding. It's like he was in a glass explosion, minus any easily visible glass pieces embedded in his flesh.

"Jesus," he breathes.

He doesn't ask if the boy is okay. The boy's eyes are wide, pupils dilated, breathing wild, he looks on the verge of a panic attack.

"Hey, it's alright," John tries to soothe. He opens his hands to show they are empty. Look harmless, ordinary. It's a look he excels at. "You should get those cuts looked at, some of them look pretty serious."

But the boy shakes his head.

"Please Dr Watson," he spits out, and he really does look like he's about to stop breathing. Instead, words tumble from his mouth, babbled so fast John didn't catch much more than 'brother', 'sick' and 'needs help'. Combine that with the boy's torn expression, between pleading and hostile broke pride, and John clearly gets the request.

John takes less than a moment to consider. That this is a homeless kid asking, and scams have happened before starting like this. That going alone, without anything but his wallet and his phone, is not a smart idea. That this is reckless.

John is a doctor. At times, he's also a reckless, reckless man.

"Alright, let's go," he says, and follows the boy through London's blind spot alleys.


	2. Chapter 2

Graffiti sprawls across the grey walls, lurid colours faded. Huge holes punch through the rusted roof of corrugated iron. A layer of grime seems to cover everything; the spray paint, the cement ground, the narrow windows set into the walls. Globs of dried gum cling to random surfaces, colourless from hours of chewing and then age. The ones stamped into the ground have partial records of zigzags and squiggly shoeprints.

This is a true example of an old abandoned warehouse. Nothing like Mycroft’s cleaned up, ominous version, stolen straight from a spy film; this is a genuine example of filthy, trashed and condemned.

The interior is not any better. Empty crates, swathed thickly with dirt-smudged cobwebs, line the mouldy walls of the large empty space inside. More cobwebs stick unobtrusively to the dark corners of the room, and sway gently from the ceiling. Piles of rubble lie randomly to one side, mixed with crushed coke cans and bottle caps and other things John doesn’t want to look too closely at. The patches of floor underneath the holes in the roof are dark, much darker than the grungy cement floor, where water must have puddled on rainy days. The only source of light comes from the sky through said holes and John, remembering the stars seared blinding white against Afghanistan's velvet skies, suppresses a sympathetic shudder at how dark and cold the warehouse must get during cloudy nights.

This is probably only the tip of the iceberg on what the homeless have to cope with. Just a little of what people reject seeing, when they carefully skim their gaze over and away from the homeless, as if they were one with the wall behind them. Background. Not to be noticed. John damn well knows this, before meeting Sherlock and consequently being introduced to the Homeless Network, he was to some extent guilty of doing the same.

(At least, before Afghanistan. After Afghanistan and before Sherlock, with his dwindling finances, he was all too aware of his options: rusticate in a boring little town outside London and its thrumming energy, or become one of London's homeless. The fact the second option even rates as an option probably says something about John's state of mind.)

He looks at the boy he followed, who strides past all of this as if he is used to it–and he probably is. He looks around sixteen, John again observes, and feels vaguely ill.

Trying to force distance in his perspective, John glances at the boy again. The boy looks back, and ruthless determination has joined the mix of hostile wariness and tense desperation on his face that discouraged John's initial reaction of checking his lacerations. Alarm bells start ringing in his head.

"Don't freak out," the boy warns, and grasps the sleeve of his jacket. It would have looked vulnerable, like a scared little boy clinging, if not for that sharp-edged determination lining his face.

This is not just a desperate kid, John realises. This is, for whatever reason, a _cornered_ kid. And a cornered animal is the most dangerous type of animal.

Because this is John Watson, he doesn't do what is reasonable and back away. Something clicks in his head, and adrenalin begins to thrum in small doses through his veins. The hand on his cane steadies.

The boy reaches out in a strange twisting motion towards the far wall–and the patch of wall simply vanishes.

Now you see it, now you don't.

 

XXX

 

In one 'realistic' universe, there would have been mechanisms operating the door, high-tech gadgetry hidden in this run down warehouse. The space behind the vanished wall would have been one of MI5's boltholes, or a hidden research facility, or something as equally ridiculous but standard in Sherlock's (former) sphere of influence.

In another 'realistic' universe (by the book series' standard), the vanished wall would have been an entrance to some other alley besides Diagon or Knockturn Alley, or an entrance to a shop, or maybe some secret backdoor entrance to Gringotts for the poor. Some equally ridiculous magical equivalent.

But we are not looking at something wholly 'realistic'. We are looking at an unordinary, unrealistic universe. What happens next falls under 'equally ridiculous', a unified trait in the latter universe that the former universes seem to share.

 

XXX

 

Some attempts at liveable conditions has been imposed on the space behind the vanished wall. There is a low table, fashioned out of two crates and a sheet of plywood, with two extremely ragged mats acting as cushions. There is the remains of a t-shirt, ragged and full of holes, pinned to the sole window in the room, a tiny pane of glass so crusted with dirt, dust and mildew that it is opaque. A bucket in the corner, covered with a jagged, broken sheet of plywood. A bed that is, like the table, made out of crates and plywood.

John takes note of these details peripherally. His attention is instead fully taken by the young boy on the makeshift bed, much younger than the teenager, maybe nine years old. He is at the child's side in an instant.

The child is wheezing harshly, breaths ragged and raw. Several violent, rattling coughs follow, so close together the boy chokes, unable to draw air. His chest heaves, and he struggles half-off the bed, grasping at a bucket resting near the head of the bed. John hands it to the boy and rubs his back soothingly as the boy wretches miserably.

The bile is green. _Neon_ green. John's doctor mindset balks.

Then the bucket...combusts.

There is no other way to describe it. As the boy leans back, his expression twists into what John recognises from clinic work as a cross between an angry child's tantrum and a very sick child's helpless sulk. The boy shoves the bucket away–and it explodes into flames.

No gas, no oil, no match. It just suddenly catches on fire.

John jerks back with the boy, instinctively twisting around as a shield, only to find the boy snatched out of his arms by the teenager. The teen shushes the other boy, then picks up a cracked bin and tosses whatever is inside over the burning bucket. Evidently just water, given that the fire fizzles out immediately.

There is a heavy five second pause as John stares mutely at the melted bucket, the teen and the child in his arms, and back. He clears his throat and licks his lips.

The younger boy looks up at him, as if only just realising the person who held him as he puked is not the same person as the teen holding him now. If possible, he goes even paler than his sickly shade before.

John's jacket abruptly catches on fire.

 

XXX

 

After a partial stripping, lots of stamping and another tossed bucket of water or two, things calm down. Or at least, nothing else combusts.

"Sorry," the younger sniffs pathetically. "Sorry Lix. Dunno how to stop it."

"Shhh," the teen, Lix, soothes. "It's alright, Benny. Can't help it, you're sick. Here, you thirsty?"

Spontaneous combustion. Twice. And it sounds like the child, Benny, thinks it's his fault. And the vanishing wall...

John tries to pull a Sherlock. That is, delete it. It doesn't work. He does manage to push it aside though. Other things to worry about first.

John observes the careful way Lix angles a bottle of water into his brother's mouth so as not to choke him with a deluge of water, they affectionate way he ruffles his brother's hair and pats his back after he finishes drinking. And yes, they are very obviously brothers. They share the same ginger hair, brown eyes, freckles and pale skin. Even the shape of their nose and their ears are almost the same. If the younger boy, Benny, had been closer to Lix's age, they would have looked like identical twins.

A suspicion blooms in John's mind, because the teen Lix is smart enough to know when his brother needs professional help–he got John to come after all–and certainly smart enough to realise he should have rung the hospital as soon as the green vomit started, possibly sooner. Yet he hasn't.

He tests his theory. "We need to bring him to a hospital."

It is Lix's turn to blanch whiter than his already pale skin colour.

 _No_ ," he snaps.

John switches from nice, civilian Dr Watson to army doctor Captain John Watson, MD. The look on his face is enough to make the teen flinch.

"Your brother is extremely dehydrated–he's panting from exertion, but he's barely even sweating. He's weak because he's dehydrated. And he's just vomited bright green bile, if it hadn't been like that from the first time he vomited, some time ago judging by the scattered buckets around the room. Green bile could be because of basic problems like lack of food, but that shade is practically toxic. I can't do anything, I haven't got my med kit or even a first aid box, and I wouldn't be able to do much for him with just that anyway. He _needs_ a hospital."

The teen is looking more and more frightened, clutching his confused younger brother tightly. He looks on the verge of another panic attack at the mention of toxic. John feels a little guilty for being this brutal. But if he's right, and the teen who seems to love his brother a lot still refuses to go...

"We _can't_ ," Lix insists, and looks both terrified and absolutely miserable for saying so. "We can't go into the system."

 _We can't be found_ , is what John interprets from this. _Can't be separated. Won't be separated._

One other option then. At least, until John can do some more convincing later.

"Right, come on, let's go to the nearest road," he announces, and the teen promptly panics, lunging into John's path as if to stop him. Somehow.

John clicks his tongue as the younger one, Benny, flails, slightly dislodged from his brother's arms. He steadies the boy with a hand to the back, and both the teen and his younger brother flinch back warily.

"No hospitals, I know," John soothes, and is careful to keep any disapproval over this out of his voice. "My flat. You can stay for a few days, see if Benny here gets better or worse. I've got a few things to at least help with his dehydration." And it's at least cleaner and safer than this run-down abandoned warehouse.

Pride and desperation war on Lix's face. Desperation wins. He still refuses, though it looks like it hurts him.

"Cameras. Big Brother's always watching," he mutters, and–what?

"Mycroft?" he asks in surprise, and is treated to a startlingly similar version of Sherlock's 'obviously' expression. It's painfully nostalgic.

Mycroft doesn't have a reason to watch him anymore. Now that Sherlock's, Sherlock's–dead. He hasn't seen the posh git since the funeral.

"Mycroft watched me only because I am–was–friends with. With Sherlock." He clears his throat, steadies, keeps talking. "He...there's no reason for him to keep watching me anymore."

Lix looks uncertain. Benny, from his place in Lix's arms, pokes him.

"Lix! Please? Just a few days. And I can do the camera-zap again. And it's Dr Watson, Sherlock said before he's real nice!"

He had?

He schools himself. Remains stoic. Don't react, John!

"Fine," Lix gives in.

Oh thank God. John was almost ready to call the hospital anyway. He still has misgivings about just taking them to his flat instead.

"Right, take anything you really want, and let's go find a road. You alright to carry him?" John asks the teen, and is rewarded with an epic scowl and tightened embrace around his brother. And yeah, John can understand that. He has a sibling as well, after all, and he wouldn't let it happen if he had a choice.

John also manages to address the last thing bewildering him.

"Just please, don't–don't set my flat on fire, okay?"

It is meant as a semi-joke, semi-question. Semi-question about his sanity at any rate. Benny and Lix's serious reply of, "I'll/he'll try," don't make him feel any better about it. He's going to have a lot of questions when they settle in his flat–after he fire-proofs the place.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been two months since the last update. I'm so sorry for this, I've been on and off ill for about a month, and before that exams. There is a positive side to this-I've had time to properly plan it, so I mostly know where this is going. It grew. And sprouted wings. I've got a multi-chapter monster on my hands. Oh, and in response to Sherlock S3 hints and trailers, etc, Mary Morstan has somehow made her way in and crowned herself queen. In a very good way. Pairings to be determined.
> 
> Unbeta-ed. Slightly longer than last chapter as an apology for that, and for the two month silence.

John has not had a flatmate since Sherlock. ( _Fell._ ) It just never came up, really. John had been otherwise–preoccupied, between that time and the day he moved out of Baker St.

(He does not remember much of the time between. That is what he tells himself. And as long as he does not look too closely at the memories, this will remain true for however long it takes for time to naturally blur them.)

(It works just as well as giving paracetamol to a gunshot victim.)

Lacking a flatmate, finances not quite healthy after working as a casual rather than full-time GP, and barely even caring about where he lived _as long as it wasn't Baker St_ , John had taken the first cheap and mostly liveable flat he could find. Appearance hadn't been an issue, and continued to be a non-issue after he moved in. It wasn't like he ever had guests after all. (Which said volumes about his social life. Or life in general.) As a result, John's current flat has as much personality as his former bedsit–that is, none at all. Off-white walls and thin beige carpet, almost grey with age, dominate. The furniture is equally as unremarkable.

Lix and Benny, with their wavy red hair set against their pale skin and hazel eyes, seem strangely bright in John's dingy flat. Almost too bright; the flat seems to turn greyer in their presence, what little colour there is leeching towards them.

This is not a good place for children, John thinks. Then he corrects himself; this is not a good place for living people, and how has he not noticed this before? It's a tomb compared to the cosy craziness of Baker–

_–(don't look, don't look)–_

–but this is all he has to offer, and the two boys are only staying for a few days. They'll survive. They might liven up the flat a bit actually, which is a good thing.

As long as they don't liven it up too much. John doesn't want to explain to the landlord how he's managed to set off the smoke alarms.

 

XXX

 

Sometime later, John will eat those words, and laugh.

 

XXX

 

_Dear Ms Granger,_

_Your project sounds brilliant, and I'll bet the new Muggleborn students and their families would really appreciate a basic guide to the wizarding world. I'm a bit surprised there hasn't been one written before, the Muggle world has basic guides to almost every country in existence (and then some)._

_I don't know if I have anything to contribute; you're in a better position to describe and write about the experience yourself. I'm just someone who got caught up in a bit of strange business, not a trace of magic in me. You've asked me to write down my life over the last couple of years though, so I'll do that and hope you find something useful in it. Some of it isn't my story to tell, so there might be a few blanks here and there._

_It started when I met Lix and Benny, almost two years ago. Whatever you've heard from others, Lix and Benny aren't actually my biological sons (though I'm currently Benny's guardian while Lix catches up on schooling he missed), and Mary is not their biological mother, though the two adore her. I met them when Lix asked me for help. Benny was sick at the time, but Lix was trying to keep them both off any records, which meant not being able to go to hospital. We had a mutual friend, and I'm a doctor, so Lix came to me instead._

_Benny had a case of Rollo's Flu, which is a common magical childhood illness from what I've read. That was exactly the problem though–that it was magical. I hadn't known about the wizarding world yet, so I had no idea to look for a magical illness. To me, Benny looked like he had an extreme case of the flu. What confused me was the green bile he vomited; it was neon green, and you will never see bile that colour in normal Muggle illnesses. Almost sent him to hospital a few times the first couple of days the boys stayed with me–I would have, if Lix didn't look ready to grab Benny and run every time I hinted at it._

_That wasn't the worst of it. The worst of it was the magical accidents..._

**_~extract of correspondence between Hermione Granger and John Watson_ **

 

XXX

 

The first day of their stay at John's flat, Lix takes Benny's hand and leads him inside, shoulders hunched as if to make himself smaller. He pulls Benny close to his side as he walks, and instinctively his eyes sweep to the corners of the first room he enters.

Benny meanwhile, hums contently and brushes his finger along the wall. He is much less guarded than his brother, and John attributes this to the protective shadow Lix wraps his brother in as well as his very young age.

Benny wriggles against Lix and, to John's surprise, Lix wordlessly lets him go. Benny continues following the wall with his fingers, casing the room and then slipping into the next one. John wonders, for one guilty, ugly second, if he should be concerned with light fingers–then shoos the thought away, and tells Lix to settle both himself and his brother in the sitting room while he makes tea and gets his medical kit. It's not an issue; all of John's most valuable possessions are secreted away anyway, he's learnt something of good hiding places after–

–(after _Sherlock_ )–

–after a couple of incidents in the past. John drops the entire line of thought and goes to make tea instead.

He walks out of the kitchenette and almost bumps into Benny, who's method of following the walls of each room has finally circled him back to the entrance of the flat. His fingers finally lift off the wall, slightly dusty, with a faint golden gleam John attributes to London's weak sunlight. Benny gives a shy half-smile in John's direction, then bounds off towards the sitting room. Lix lifts an arm and Benny ducks under, the motion easy and instinctive.

John pretends he didn't watch the last few moments, and steps into the room with tea.

(He also pretends that London is mildly sunny at the moment. It is in fact, overcast and dark. This is not a conscious pretence though–the human mind will always try to explain away or ignore that which it can't understand.)

 

XXX

 

The first few days, Benny spends most of his time either resting in the guest room, or curled up on the sofa. Lix meanwhile, tries to stay in the same room as Benny at all times, especially if John is in the room. Lix watches with hawk eyes when John forces water, food and medicine down his throat, and the first time John catches Lix sneaking medical packaging out of the waste bin to read, Lix flushes a deep, blotchy red but holds up what pride he has left by refusing to apologise.

That Lix is suspicious is understandable, but to be this paranoid–it leaves a bitter taste in John's mouth. After that, John leaves the tablets in their packs and boxes when he brings them to Benny, and says nothing to Lix.

Aside from that though, Lix and Benny avoid making a mess, and do everything they can to not even mark their presence on the flat aside from bringing themselves. They are very, very aware that they are guests, and John has mixed feelings about this, sadness being a predominant one. However, he ends up ignoring it in favour of Benny’s strange illness.

For the first few days, Benny seemed to be recovering. Dehydration easily fixed under John’s carful ministrations, Benny’s awful rattling coughs turn wet but manageable, chased away with a mighty clearing of the throat. His pallor returns to a more normal pale shade, and his instances of nausea and vomiting abate. Most importantly to John, the bile that appears when Benny does vomit transitions from neon green to a more normal yellow-brown colour. It is still tinged a slight dull green, but that is not unusual, and compared to what it was before, John is very much reassured by Benny’s progress in recovering. He is still concerned by what caused the bile to be so toxic looking before, but with Lix more likely to take Benny and run than letting him be admitted into a hospital, there is not much John can do. Even mentioning blood tests causes Lix to blanch and start eyeing the nearest available exit.

Rather than panic Lix into doing anything rash, he monitors Benny, treats the lacerations criss-crossing up Lix’s arms, neck, and even across his cheeks (how he got them Lix refuses to say), and tells Lix that Benny needs to stay until he is fully recovered in case a relapse occurs. This ensures that Lix won't feel confident enough to just run off with Benny the next morning—Lix is an overprotective brother, he won't take the chance. John is privately sure though that Benny will make a full recovery soon, with the worst of the illness over.

Two days later, Benny is puking violently into the toilet, the bile neon green again. He stumbles, almost too dizzy to stand, and for the next few days is too unsteady and nauseous to leave the bed. John spends that time at Benny’s side, slowly helping him through what seems to be a relapse of this strange illness.

Around this time, things start catching on fire in his flat. It’s not just random combustion, either.

John doesn’t understand how. Or maybe, he doesn’t really want to—his first reaction to this occurrence, in the warehouse, was to try and delete it after all. He is in his own home now, he knows every nook and cranny of it, and he keeps everything clean and organised. Therefore, he also knows perfectly well there is no explanation for random non-flammable objects catching on fire.

John tries to find a reason, any reason for the strange fire incidents. He _observes_ , and what he finds is this:

That things tend to burst into flames after Benny has just finished heaving the contents of his stomach. Lix is always next to his brother when this happens, hand hovering close to the tap. His dousing the fire out very quickly is the only reason the smoke alarms haven't been set off. Yet.

That Benny likes to play with marbles, or beads, or something small, shiny and colourful. John often walks into the guest room to find Benny bored and absently wriggling his fingers against the bed sheets, tiny sparks of reflected light dancing between the digits. John would not place much weight on this habit at all, if Lix didn't catch John looking at Benny's fingers during one of those times and blurt out that Benny liked to play with matches. _Matches_. (John did not panic and abruptly demand they empty their pockets and give him the matches. He asked very calmly. He most definitely quirked his eyebrow when the matches appeared out of Lix's pockets, rather than Benny's.)

He also notices that the fire occurrences peter out as Benny again recovers and starts to vomit less often. The bile again fades back to a more normal colour, and the spare ice-cream tubs they go into when Benny doesn't feel strong enough to make it to the toilet stop getting charred.

John is very, very relieved at this. His flat will be less likely to go up in flames.

The sparks also stop occurring–John assumes because Benny is now capable of getting out of bed and therefore not quite bored enough to pull out his toys. John still forces him to bed more often than Benny likes, wary of Benny relapsing once again. He looks fine now, but the prior relapse had been sudden and unexpected, and John is very cautious now.

The caution is right but useless in the end; a few days after Benny's second time almost recovered, the nausea takes him violently again, and he spends several minutes puking toxic-shaded bile into an ice-cream tub held by Lix, suddenly too dizzy to stand.

The tub abruptly hurls itself out of Lix hands– _hurls itself_ , because Lix's hands did not move from their slightly curled position around the sides of it–and hits the opposite wall. Very unpleasant fluid splashes all over the wall and carpet.

There is silence for one moment. Two.

Then Benny starts sniffling, shoving a fisted hand to his nose. Lix jumps forward, snatching the tissue box off the bedside table and hurrying towards the mess.

"Sorry Dr Watson, I'm really sorry, I dunno what I was doing–" and Lix is babbling as he crouches.

John–John can't react. Doesn't know how to react. In the end, he silently pulls a blanket over Benny's curled form, grabs some tissues and starts cleaning up as well. Wonders how to get the stain out of the carpet. Very carefully doesn't think about anything past the carpet.

Tries very, very hard to just _calm the fuck down_.

Because that–that isn't possible. What just happened wasn't possible, the random fires he's been ignoring weren't possible, and bloody hell, John's seen what goes in both brothers' pockets and there were no toys when they turned them out during his search for matches. He can't keep ignoring all this, _all this_ , the incidences are escalating. Expanding. Doing different things. So think, think; what the hell has he been seeing?

What the hell is going on?

Time. He needs time. Just to breathe, and process. So he can think clearly again, and decide what to do.

Right. Carpet stain. He's run out of detergent.

"I'm out of detergent. Going to the shops, I'll do the grocery shopping while I'm at it."

Benny stares at him with teary eyes. They look heartbroken. It's like a slap to the face. John looks at him. Looks at Lix, crouched on the floor, hands basically fisting the tissues he's cleaning with, head kept determinedly down.

They think he'll toss them out, John realises. Or just shove them in a hospital. They think he's done with them.

God, he's an idiot. They're trusting him, at least a little, and he's being an arse about it. _Calm the fuck down, John._

John stretches out his left hand. Just slightly. It's steady for now. Good enough. He smiles at both boys he seems to have temporarily taken charge of, walks over to Benny and coaxes him to lie straight. Lix rises to his feet, eyes keen and wary, but all John does is tuck the blankets in around Benny.

"I'll be back in an hour, tops. I'll give you some tablets for the nausea now, by the time I'm back with groceries you should feel better. Lix, there's more tissues under the bathroom sink, if you could help me clean up the wall? Carpet's a lost cause til I get some more detergent."

Then John does just what he said; he gives Benny something for his nausea, helps Lix clean off the wall, then goes out for supplies, leaving his mobile number pinned just above his flat's emergency landline.

Just a tactical retreat, John tells himself. He'll be back with a plan soon. And they will be _discussing_ this. He's buried his head in the sand for far too long already, and it's not like John Watson to ever do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My tumblr: mochi-and-tea.tumblr.com/
> 
> NSFW because of the occasional racy picture/text. You've been warned.


	4. AUTHOR'S NOTE

This is not a chapter, sorry. I thought I should explain the long pause.

I had almost everything figured for this story. I wanted Mary to have a big part, I'd written out her character already. Then S3 came out, and she was just so radically different from what I imagined. That's probably a big problem with writing fanfiction for an unfinished series, serves me right to have such rigid expectations, etc., but now I just can't reconcile what I've planned with what S3 showed. I have a plethora of mixed feelings about that season, not just Mary (BAMF assassin though she is). Brilliant filming; character-wise, well, I'm still trying to get into their heads.

To the point: this story is on hiatus, until I figure it out. Thank you for reading the first few chapters though.


End file.
